


going the distance

by insomniacjams



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, M/M, exchange fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniacjams/pseuds/insomniacjams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Carey Price/Corey Crawford, pre-established relationship prior to the 2014 Olympics, dealing with their grief over Corey not making the cut for Team Canada</p>
            </blockquote>





	going the distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [McSpot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McSpot/gifts).



> This did not go the direction I meant for it to and it kind of strays from the prompt. For that, I apologize.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I also apologize for the number of times I used "Carey" and "Corey" and how I may or may not have confused one for the other at some point in the story.

One of his friends had asked him once, many years ago, before the NHL was a sure thing, before he came out to his father, before he tumbled headfirst into the best years of his life, "What's the hardest part about being Carey Price?"

He'd laughed back then, because back then, even through all the inner turmoil and the runabout that would lead him to his position as starting goalie for Montreal, his life, it'd been so easy. He'd always had things come easy.

Now, he thinks there are at least 1366 parts that are more difficult than anything he's ever done, hockey be damned. 1366 parts, and each of them is a painful kilometre, stretching out a jagged path between Montreal and Chicago – counting out the reasons that his life is no longer about the hardest part of being Carey Price.

Somewhere between winning a gold medal in Sweden back in 2007 at the World Junior Championships and today, Carey's life became the hardest part about being with Corey Crawford.

It was never going to be easy; he didn't need 1366 kilometres to tell him as much. But Carey was a goalie, and like his counterparts, he was brash and spontaneous and liked to face things head-on. He was the type of man who dove into lakes without checking the depth.

So he dove.

And now, 1366 kilometres later, the hardest part about being Carey Price is his boyfriend.

Corey is hard. Not just in the literal sense, though he is that too, all solid muscle and goaltending to make a brick wall jealous, but he's got a rough exterior, with a stoic resting face and an unwavering calm demeanor.

He grits his teeth and smiles through the pain, through every loss, every negative media report, every death in the family – and Carey holds his hand, smiles for him, and waits.

Carey finds himself waiting on his boyfriend a lot; he finds himself pacing the hallways of the United Center when he's in Chicago, the Bell Centre in Montreal, and every hotel room in between, waiting.

But it isn't just the time between straightening ties and strapping on the pads. It's the quiet in between, the nights Corey will lay in bed with his eyes open wide, words dancing on the tip of his tongue until he can't taste them anymore and they come spilling out.

It's quiet confessions – it's whispers of "I won't make it," and whispers of "I'm not good enough for you." And it's Carey, holding his hand, gripping his fingers until his own go numb.

It's Carey that says, "You’ve already made it. You're all I need. You're good enough for me."

Sometimes it's the crease where Carey waits; it's the blue paint on white ice, a stark contrast against the red – the red is the only thing they have in common some days; the red of their uniforms a bright reminder that no matter what team they play for, at the end of the day, they both play for the same team – Team Canada.

He finds it hard to remember that when they stare each other down from the opposite ends of the rink, and they don't meet Chicago often – both a blessing and a curse as between the fleeting touches through layers of padding and gloves on ice, Carey vibrates with energy that Corey absorbs to balance them out.

The cities blur together now. Days are no longer about Tampa Bay or Anaheim or Nashville, but instead about Corey and not Corey – about 1366 kilometres and a 13 hour drive and the days in between when sometimes they're so far away – when some days Corey's in Florida and Carey's in California.

It's waiting; it's Skyping from dingy hotel rooms or texting from long bus or plane rides, when they're so close, when they're a state or a province or even a city away, and they can't touch, because the 45 minute drive between Anaheim and Los Angeles isn't one they can take for leisure with their line of work.

It's always been Carey, waiting, watching the kilometres fly by out the car window, and waiting again. Waiting for Corey to call first (he never does), waiting for Corey to say what's on his mind (he does, sometimes), and waiting for Corey to need him again (and honestly, that never stops).

Carey knows he's a lock for the 2014 Olympic team. PK tells him he's being arrogant, but that's just because it isn't a sure thing for him. They laugh and they joke and they smile together at the orientation camp; they talk about gold medals and living up to expectations. They don't talk about Corey.

And Corey, he's there too – standing there silently, like a shadow. He lets Carey smile for him, leaves fleeting touches at the back of Carey's neck with his fingertips, and at night, they sleep tangled together, with Corey whispering in his ear, "Implicit egotism makes us attracted to people whose names are similar to our own."

And it's not like Corey doesn't say "I love you," he does, though admittedly not as often as Carey, but a line like that, it's just as good, muffled in the pillows on the cusp of sleep in the dark of night. A line like that, it means "I love you" in the most Corey Crawford way possible. 

And Carey smiles for both of them.

It's easy for him; easy to move across the ice and laugh and dance and sing – easy like it's always been. And for the first time since their relationship began, the balance tilted – they fell sideways. It's Corey who waits.

Carey doesn't get to see any of it, already swept up in his own life in Montreal, but he can imagine it – he can imagine Corey's legs pacing back and forth in his cramped apartment wearing down the faded tan carpet. He can imagine Corey's fingers impatiently drumming on the tabletop. He can imagine the phone, silent, mocking.

Carey's not there for the announcement. He's sitting squashed beside PK on a couch where PK takes up two and a half of the three cushions and all he wants is to be in Chicago. And he knows what it's like in Chicago – in Chicago, it's not about Carey. It's about Toews and Keith and and Sharp – it's about the other non-Canadian Olympians.

He closes his eyes when they say his name, and opens then again a few beats later – and it's over. It's all over, and Carey's breathing, his eyes are open, he's playing for Team Canada, and Corey isn't.

And the months go fast.

One day has him playing hockey in Montreal and the next has him in his net, staring at the big ice in Sochi. 

One day has him gasping, nearly in tears as his team struggles against Latvia.

Then one day, he's wearing a gold medal around his neck, and Corey isn't.

"I want to see you," Corey says that night, as they talk on Skype. "And I want to thank you, for doing what I couldn't."

"You'll get your turn; you just have to wait," Carey says, and Corey shakes his head.

"I'm not good at waiting. That's your thing."

"I could teach you," Carey says, reaching out to touch the screen, like he could splice the kilometres between them.

"I'll be your best student," Corey says, and once again, he waits.

The months pass in wins and losses and Sochi lies forgotten like a gold medal discarded in the back corner of a closet. Carey doesn't think – he doesn't dare think about it. Instead, he plays his heart out – through Boston, until they're knocked out from the playoffs by New York.

And not long after, Chicago falls to LA in a long and grueling fight – and it's over. The season's done. The waiting is through. 

"I'll come to you this year, if you can wait for me," Corey says over the phone, and Carey's already buying him a plane ticket before he can sputter out a protest.

"I'll wait," Carey says, and when he looks at his map again, he notes that by air travel, it's only 1201 kilometres between Chicago and Montreal. He smiles, smiles for both of them, and starts calculating the difference.

"You always do," Corey says.

He thinks, for a few hours, while he waits for Corey's flight to arrive, at least 165 parts of his life that just got a tiny bit easier.

And he smiles, just a tiny bit wider, knowing that Corey's probably on the other side, knowing Carey's smiling for him too.

"Can I wear it?" Corey asks about the medal when he arrives, before they even get all his bags into Carey's trunk. Carey just shrugs.

"If you want."

"I do."

"You'll get your own at the next Olympics," Carey assures him.

"I know," Corey nods.

"I'll wait," Carey smiles. "And then I'll wear yours too."

"I know," Corey says again.

**Author's Note:**

> While writing this story, I learned that Carey Price resides in Kelowna during the offseason and that he was raised near Anahim Lake in BC. I learned that the driving distance between Chicago and Montreal is ~1366 km, and the air distance is ~1201 km. I also learned that I shouldn't try to attempt basic arithmetic hungover.


End file.
